Free Pinch Hit by Tim Green

two signed by Nolan Ryan, so he pulled one over his head. He took a deep breath and spotted a baseball mitt on a shelf by the window. Sam put it on. It fit perfectly, but it needed more breaking in. While his own glove responded to the slightest flex of his fingers, this one moved a bit stiffly. He flexed his hand, thinking about the batting cage and wondering if he could try it out.
    He couldn’t remember if Trevor said he used it at night. He didn’t recall Trevor saying he had a bedtime, either. Sam’s father made him go to bed at ten every night. If Sam wanted to read until eleven he could, but once eleven came around, it was lights out. Sam pushed open two glass doors and stepped out onto a terrace. Little white flowers hung from the green vines that crept up the side of the house. Sam moved his face closer to the flowers and inhaled a scent so sweet it nearly lifted him off his feet. He looked out through the trees and across the lawn and saw the golf course Trevor spoke about, lit by spotlights in the bushes, glowing green even in the night. Beyond the course and the treetops, Sam could see the huddled shapes of the hills and the twinkling lights of the other nearby mansions tucked into their flanks like gems. He suddenly felt very alone and frightened.
    He had no business being here and he knew it. Sam took off the Nolan Ryan jersey and laid it on the bed. He tugged Trevor’s phone from his pocket and sent a text to his own phone.
    i cant do this. we got 2 switch bk
    Sam paced the room, waiting for Trevor’s reply.
    Finally, the phone buzzed.

21
TREVOR
    Trevor lay in bed with the light on, pretending to read Sam’s book, The Count of Monte Cristo . He was too excited to really read. He loved it—his tiny room at the end of a short hall, the cramped bathroom. Trevor smelled only the hint of garbage beneath Sam’s father’s apple pipe smoke. It was all so real, so rough. It made Trevor’s existence seem as fake as a movie set.
    And Sam’s dad? The man was a hoot, a character you just couldn’t make up, with his snippets of Shakespeare, the click of his keyboard, and that delicious smoke snaking its way up from the doorway of his little office to crawl along the ceiling. Trevor looked at the baseball trophies glimmering down at him from the top of Sam’s dresser. A bat bag stood in the corner, worn and dirty from heavy use. Trevor could just imagine the games and the tournaments, the crack of bats, the shouts of teammates, and the dusty tramp of feet over bases. He felt a shiver of joy before Sam’s phone buzzed.
    Trevor read the message and scowled, then his face relaxed. He typed furiously, explaining to McKenna what he needed. When the phone buzzed again, he smiled at McKenna’s reply. She would get her publicist to help. Trevor wasn’t crazy about the woman, but she did seem devoted to McKenna.
    Trevor texted McKenna back that it was a good plan and asked her to send him a text, pretending he was Sam and saying that she wanted to help get his father’s script green-lighted. She replied in less than a minute. Trevor forwarded McKenna’s newest text to Sam, adding:
    lk what McK sent me 2 shw ur dad
    we’ll get his script 2 b a movie!
    just gv me th wknd 2 play bball!
    Trevor read McKenna’s part over again, sent it to Sam, and walked down the hallway to show Sam’s dad the phony text he got from McKenna.
    Trevor filled his voice with excitement. “Dad, check it out. It’s from McKenna Steele.”
    Sam’s dad typed a few more lines, removed the pipe from his mouth, and spun around in the squeaky metal chair, taking the phone and reading the text. His eyebrows shot up. “McKenna Steele sent this? She’s going to give my script to Trevor Goldman? He wants to help now? She’s that close with him? Is this what you two talked about?”
    â€œI wasn’t sure. She said she wanted to think about it, but how good